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So my very first official, non-fraud (so far) case of the paranormal was given to me by Miss Fiona Ambrose, the green eyed beauty. Throughout her time spent in my office she seemed to be a special blend of worried, frightened and unable to believe she was actually hiring a Paranormal Investigator.
Hell, I was the Paranormal Investigator (okay, posing as one) and I could hardly believe it myself!
Fiona had come to me because, to put it bluntly, everyone else had turned her down. The police wouldn’t handle her case because they thought she was just some sorority sister pulling a prank for admission to some party. Private Detectives wouldn’t help her out because they had other cash cows to milk (mostly suspicious wives who wanted their husbands shadowed). There were a dozen or so other options she had tried to no avail.
Bottom line, I was Fiona’s plan Z.
Though I acted offended by the fact she came to me last, I didn’t blame her. In fact, if she had came to me first, I would have showed her the door and tell her to get psychiatric care. Anyway, I could see why she was turned down by everyone else save for yours truly. Her case was rather…unique. You see, she wanted me to investigate some sort of religious group that seemed to be cropping up here in the city. I guess these fanatics had a real Jonestown vibe to them, which wasn’t illegal just worrisome. Fiona didn’t have a real interest in the cult but rather someone who had gotten too close to the fanatics.
Her older sister, Faye.
Now snooping around after someone is relatively easy for a gentleman with my snake-like morals and chameleon talents but this wasn’t going to be a paid-to-stalk gig, much to my disappointment. Yes, I was supposed to track down Fiona’s sister, but there was one slight problem.
Faye had been dead for the better part of a year.
Now the alarms began to ring in my head. Despite being positively beautiful and extremely flexible (my mind had wandered during our conversation several times and I came to this conclusion on my own), I realized that Fiona must be crazy. Now I’m indifferent to people’s…eccentric behavior, or even their unstable mindset, but you gotta understand my position: Excluding certain celebrities, crazy kooks are short on cash.
Upset about being disturbed by some penniless nut, I took a deep breath. Figuring the best course of action to get the charmingly insane Fiona out of my office was to come up with some extravagant bill. I did this with gusto. While making every effort to seem sincere, I rambled off several fees including “police cross-reference costs.” By the time I finished my expense report, she was looking at a five hundred dollar payment before I even stepped out of my office.
“No problem,” She responded, reaching for her purse.
I nearly fell out of my seat.
After digging in her purse for a moment, Fiona finally produced a thick roll of legal tender. If I had been a lesser man who hadn’t spent a lifetime cheating people, I wouldn’t have been able to conceal my surprise. Luckily for me, I was able to slip on a carefully neutral expression during this exchange.
With a bank teller’s speed, Fiona slapped down several stacks of bills which quickly added up to five hundred dollars. I know in this day and age cash in such bulk was becoming a rarity (another reason I’m glad I gave up pick pocketing when I was in grade school), so this cash was rather telling. The fact that the majority of it was in small dominations like singles or fives was even more informative.
My aloofness must have cracked some what because Fiona caught the suspicious look in my eyes.
“I know what you’re thinking,” She stated frostily, “And I’m a waitress, not a stripper. These are my tips.”
Though a brief image of Fiona’s pleasing figure twirling about a pole crossed my mind, I didn’t let my neutral composure slip any further.
“No, it’s not that.” I lied, “I was just grateful that you would bring cash. Many of my clients write out checks which more often then not bounce after I render them my services.”
“So,” Fiona asked after clearing her throat, “You’re…experienced at this kind of thing?”
Fleecing a young, misguided woman out of time and money? Yes. Finding a dead relative for someone who was probably in desperate need of medication? No. Luckily, my silver tongue was greased and ready to spout off what she wanted to hear.
“Well each case is unique, as I said before.” I explained with a wave of my hand as if we were discussing the weather, “But missing persons, or presumably missing persons, are somewhat my specialty.”
To her credit, she still looked skeptical but slid the five hundred bucks across my desk. Doing my best not too seem to eager, I scooped up the cash. Being the gent I am, I did not insult her by counting it right away. Instead I placed my fee in the drawer of my desk until it could be safely blown at poker night.
“I’ll get started on your case right away,” I told Fiona with the appropriate amount of sincerity and sympathy, “How may I contact you if anything comes up?”
Fiona jotted down a cell number and gave it to me, then continued looking at me with anticipation. Realizing she was expecting me to ask more than just contact information, I reached for a pen. I kept the illusion of professionalism intact by taking a few notes until Fiona seemed satisfied I had asked all the right questions.
“I will call as soon as I get a lead,” I promised as I stood and began walking her to the door, “Might I suggest that you stay with a friend for the next few nights?”
“Why?” She asked suspiciously, obviously sane enough to pick up on the fact I thought she belonged in a straitjacket.
“What I might uncover could be rather upsetting,” I informed her with more false sincerity, “I would feel better if you were with someone you trusted, for your safety and emotional well being.”
She nodded thoughtfully, apparently buying my lie wholesale. With that, I opened the door and was just about to show her out when she did something even more unexpected than hiring me to hunt down her long dead sister.
She hugged me.
“I know you must think I’m crazy!” She exclaimed, her voice on the verge of becoming a sob, “I did too at first! I even checked myself into an institution but they told me I was perfectly alright! I-I-I just don’t know what to do! Thank you so much!”
Though I didn’t want to, I managed to untangle myself from the young woman with an awkward smile. As I bid her a silent farewell and shut the door behind Fiona, another feeling was beginning to worm its way into my gut. I couldn’t place the alien sensation for a moment but when I did identify it, I was appalled.
The feeling was guilt! Or so I assumed due to other people’s description of the emotion. I let out a long sigh and made my way back over to my desk, a movie-reel of mixed up thoughts/feelings racing through my heart and skull.
This wasn’t going to be as easy as I had thought.
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